


Different, But the Same

by Infinitysided



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bonding, College, Coming Out, Family, First Kiss, I feel like this is really scattered but I wrote what I wanted to read, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sneaking Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitysided/pseuds/Infinitysided
Summary: The Pines family isn't the most accepting of things that are different. It's a miracle Ford managed to make it his whole life without ridicule from his family for his abnormal hands. Although, when it comes down to it, his hands really are the most normal thing about him.(Back when he was still at home, it was treating it like a secret and sneaking out windows, praying no one would find out. In college, it was denying who he was until it became too much and he broke down to his roommate. Years down the line, after everything's said and done, it's accepting who he is and trying his best to be happy.)





	Different, But the Same

Stan wakes up at some ungodly hour to his brother climbing in through the window of their room- or more accurately, falling through it. It's ass o'clock and they have school in the morning, and as upset as he is at being woken up, Stan would never miss the oppurtunity to make fun of his brother doing something rebellious for once in his life. He squints his eyes in the darkness and watches as the figure next to the window picks himself up and silently slides it shut (he probably worked out how to do that with his nerd science), turning around to face his twin. Stan stares back at him, his eyes shining in the moonlight in a way Ford can't miss, and holds back a laugh at the look of panic on his brother's face. There's a silent plea in his gaze, one that Stan understands as 'please don't tell Pa', a look that has been on his own face more times than he would care to admit. He rolls his eyes in response, pushing himself onto his elbow and looking closer at the boy next to the window now that his eyes have adjusted to the light.

The moonlight flooding in through the window makes Ford look as if he has a faint glow around the edges, and as Stan focuses on his face, he realises that something is different. It isn't just the moon making him look like he's glowing. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are red, and even though there's fear contorting his features, there's still a light in his that Stan's only seen when he's working on his nerd stuff. He knows that look because he's seen it in the mirror after a long day with Carla, albeit his reflection is usually less fear riddled. Stan's lips curl up into a smirk at the thought of Ford having someone like Carla in his life. He pushes himself up further so he's almost sitting and locks with Ford once again.

"She must be one hell of a woman if she's worth sneaking out for," Stan's voice is hushed, but his amusement is evident.

Ford's cheeks darken and he clasps his hands behind his back (an attempt at seeming composed), before casting his down to the floor.

"Ah, yes. She is."

Stan snorts, too tired to read into what his brother's tone means; he'd bother him about it in the morning. For now, he sinks back down onto his bed, resting his hands beneath his head and looking at the bottom of the mattress above him. Stan can only hear his own breath for a moment, but a sigh comes from the other side of the room, breaking the silence that had started to become heavy between them. Shuffling can be heard, followed by gentle footsteps and the sound of the mattress creaking above him. It's the last thing Stan hears before he drifts off to sleep, his head swarming with questions for the morning.

-

He wakes up the next morning to their alarm clock blaring on the bedside table and Ford groaning. His hand reaches out to silence it, and he squints at the time on the clock only to mumble angrily in response to the numbers that stare back at him. They had slept in. He sits up slowly, his back cracking in protest as he looks up at Ford's bed.

"Up and at 'em, sixer. Pa'll be in here in any minute to rip us a new one if we don't get ready soon," His voice is still deep with sleep and despite the intention of his words, they come out with no real energy.

Ford groans again, the mattress creaking under him as the twin shifts around. Stan stares up for a minute, orienting himself with the world once again after a night of questionable sleep, before punching Ford's mattress and curling his lips up at the sound of exasperation his brother lets out.

"I'm up, I'm up," Ford breathes out.

"It must have been some wild night with that secret lady friend of yours if 'Mr. All Nighter Every Night' is exhausted."

"Please don't bring up last night."

"Why not?" Stan grins. "You finally found a gal you're interested in and you think she's worth sneaking out for. She must be some kind of mega nerd if she likes you back enough to do the same."

"Stanley, please," Ford's voice is weak as he begs, a tone that Stan hasn't heard from him in years.

He furrows his brow, the grin fading from his face, "It's that bad, huh? What is she, a drug dealer? Does she already have a boyfriend?"

"What?" He sounds surprised. "None of that stuff, you knucklehead."

"Why can't we talk about it then?"

"Because I don't want to, Stanley." There's a pause where Stan can tell he's considering his words. "We have school."

Stan huffs, having hoped to get more out of his brother before they left so he wouldn't have to wait until tonight for details about his brother's new infatuation.

"What's her name?" He's eager to push one last time before he gave up for the morning.

"Why does it matter, Stanley?" Ford sounds exhausted, but Stan's guessing it isn't from being out late last night.

"If you're going to sneak out and expect me not to tell Pa, you might as well tell me who you snuck out for, Poindexter."

The bunk above him is silent and he thinks he might have struck a nerve, until he hears the bed creak and sees feet dangling down next to his bed. He hears his twin let out a deep breath and eagerly waits for the words about to leave his mouth.

"Come on, we have to get ready for school."

Maybe he had struck a nerve.

-

As they lay in bed that evening, Stan thinks of all the things left unsaid the night before. If Ford had managed to sneak out once without him noticing, and hide the fact that he was interested in someone, he wonders what else could have gone over his head.

"Hey, Ford?" Stan's voice rings out before he really knows what he wants to say.

"Yes, Stanley?"

"Are you going to go see her again tonight?"

Ford stays quiet. He hears his brother's feet climbing down the ladder of their bunk bed and watches as he moves to his bedside. He hovers next to him, watching intently as Stan sits up. He's fidgeting nervously; even in the darkness Stan can see that he's sweating.

"You going to sit down, or?" He doesn't mean for his words to come off as rude, but he's getting tired of waiting for answers.

"Stan, do you know how Pa is always telling us what's right and wrong and if we don't agree with him he'll yell at us until we do?" He's talking so fast Stan is struggling to understand a word coming out of his mouth. It turns out he doesn't really need to listen, as Ford goes on without prompting: "I think the person I'm sneaking out to see could get me into a lot of trouble, and I'm scared if I tell you, you'll tell Pa."

Stan's eyes go wider at the confession. Did he really not trust him?

"What, is she some kind of hippie or something?"

Ford glances at the clock, his expression changing to one of urgency. "It's not like that."

"Stanford, c'mon. You can tell me."

His twin takes a step back towards the window, giving Stan a sincere look, but he can see the worry in his . Ford turns around and opens the window, leaving without another word.

-

When he comes back, Stan is wide awake, his head swimming with ideas of what Ford could possibly be hiding. He turns towards his brother and opens his mouth to finally relieve himself of the things that had been keeping him up all night. Instead, he's faced with his brother leaning out the window, whispering something down to someone. He strains his ears to hear, hardly being able to pick up Ford's side of the conversation.

"You can't come in, you'll wake him up."

A pause, presumably the other person talking.

Ford laughs lightly, but it sounds different than Stan's used to.

"Maybe tomorrow night. Same place, right?"

A pause. Then, from outside, a laugh, except it's deeper than Stan would expect from a teenage girl.

"Shhhh! We're going to get caught."

A pause.

Ford leans further out the window, his hands gripping the windowsill. He pulls back and lets out a breathy laugh, waving at the person outside. He stands up to his full height and closes the window, turning around to be met by staring at him for the second night in a row.

"You saw all of that, didn't you?"

Stan snorts, sitting up straighter. "What were you two planning on doing if you let her in?"

His twin huffs, sitting down to take off his shoes and that's when Stan notices something that he hadn't noticed before. Something very prominent and very dark on his neck, illuminated by the light flooding in through the window.

"Holy shit, sixer."

Ford's head shoots up, locking on his brother's as Stan gets a better look at his face, seeing the same swollen lips and flushed cheeks as before. He notices that his twin looks calmer now than he did the night before, and Stan feels his heart ache in appreciation at the thought of his twin beginning trusting him with this. His gaze travels down to his neck, taking note of the hickeys that trail down one side and disappear under his shirt, and pausing on the hand mark around his neck. Had she been hurting him? Stan glances up again to the small smile gracing his brother's lips and wipes away that possibility, holding back a noise as his brain pieces together what the only other option is. He quickly moves on from that thought, not wanting to address it at the moment. He casts his gaze down, looking for something to distract him and notices his shirt. His shirt, that's a size too big on him and definitely isn't his. The buttons were obviously done up in a haste, the top two still unbuttoned, revealing more dark spots. Some of the other buttons were put into the wrong hole, making one side of the shirt go higher up than the other.

Stan pushes his blanket back and swings his legs off the bed.

"Come here."

He can hear Ford's breath stop. "What, why?"

"Just come here."

Ford takes off his shoes, begrudgingly treading over to Stan and sitting down next to him. His hands rest on the bed and his six digits tangle themselves in the sheet under him. Cautiously, Stan leans towards him and gets a closer look at his neck. His mouth falls open as he gazes at the love bites scattered along his brother's neck. If he isn't going to answer any of his questions about who he's seeing, Stan rationalised that he might as well ask about something else that has piqued his curiousity.

"So choking, huh?"

A strangled sound comes from Ford's throat (Stan has to try not to laugh at that) and his head shoots up from where it was hanging between his shoulders. He glares at his brother, his fingers clenching into fists in the sheets. Stan doesn't think he's ever seen someone get so red so fast.

"Is it really that obvious?" His whole body is shaking.

Stan focuses on the mark on his neck, when he notices the third out of place thing of the night. The hand print is huge, abnormally large for a woman's hand. The back of his mind tries desperately to tell him something, something that sounds like 'maybe it's not', but he ignores it and looks down at his brother's hand gripping the sheets like it's the only thing keeping him from running back out the window.

"There's a huge ass hand print on your neck, Poindexter. Must really be some woman you've got. I guess I should've seen it coming that you like to be taken control of, you always have been-"

"Stan, stop."

There's something in the way he says it that makes Stan shut his mouth. His trail back up to Ford's face to find a tear making its way down his cheek. Hastily, he throws an arm around his twin, feeling something inside of him stir at the way his brother jumps at the contact.

"Woah, woah. Ford, what's going on?"

"Pa's going to kill me."

"Why? Are you worried he's going to see the hickeys?"

"There are hickeys?!"

"Did you think there wouldn't be?" He worries that the stress of being found out is starting to drive Ford insane.

Ford's head drops back down and his gaze rests hopelessly on his lap. He mumbles something that Stan can hardly make out, something like 'told me there wouldn't be', and he's sure that Ford's intentionally left out the name for fear of Stan hearing it. Which makes absolutely no sense to him. It's just a name, what's the problem with him knowing it? Unless it's someone he knows, his thoughts chime in helpfully, which manages to confuse him even more because he can't think of a single person he knows who Ford would fall for.

"If this isn't about the massive hickeys, then what is it about?"

"I can't tell you right now." He doesn't think he's ever seen Ford look so lost.

"We're supposed to share everything with each other! We're twins, Poindexter! That means you and me are supposed to be there with each other, through thick and thin."

One of Ford's hands untangles itself from the sheets and he uses it to scrub away a new wave of tears threatening to spill from his . He lets it fall back down onto the bed and his lips fall open, like he's about to say something, but no words come out.

"No matter what happens, we go through it together. You promised me that." Stan's words are firm, giving Ford no room to argue.

"You're right," Ford croaks after a second, looking over at his hand like it held the answers any question he could ever have. "And I'm not going to break that promise."

For the briefest of seconds, Stan thinks he's actually going to get something out of his brother.

"But I'm not ready to go through this with you." Ford sniffs. "I need more time."

Stan has no clue what his brother could have gotten himself into that would require this much worry, and honestly, it's starting to scare him. But, it's Ford, and he trusts him. Whenever he was ready to open up, he would. He always did. Instead of replying, he pulls his brother closer, casting his gaze towards the window where all of this started. He would give him time if he needed it, even if he didn't want to.

Ford's head shifts to press against his side and hears him sniff again, feeling his brother's body shake under his arm. Stan can tell he's terrified, so he resigns himself in the fact that no matter how badly he wants to know what's going on, Ford's feelings come first. His brother lets out a sob and Stan feels his heart break in his chest. Quickly, Ford's hand comes up to cover his mouth, muffling the sounds of sorrow flooding out from it. Stan briefly notices the feeling of tears soaking through his shirt, then files it away to the list of things to worry about later and tightens his grip on Ford's shoulder. He doesn't know how long they sit there, but when Ford finally moves his head back to look up at him, the side of Stan's shirt is wet and Ford's are bloodshot. "Better?" His words are quiet, an attempt to come off as comforting.

His brother nods meekly, pulling back further so the weight of his body wasn't resting on Stan's. He sniffs, the hand that had been on his mouth rubbing at his nose, then falling heavily into his lap. He stares down at it with an intensity usually reserved for new inventions and hard to solve equations. Ford contemplates his six digits for a brief moment before curling them up into a weak fist and opening his mouth.

"This morning," Ford starts, hesitating for a second before forcing the rest of the words out of his throat, "you asked what the name of the person I've been sneaking out to see is."

Stan remembers asking, but he doesn't know why it matters after everything that's happened. The only reason he had wanted it was because he couldn't get any information from his brother, but after tonight, that wasn't the case. He knew Ford wasn't comfortable talking about it and he wasn't going to push it. There's a sharp intake of air next to him that causes him to look over, noticing the determination on his twin's face.

"His name is Tom."

Stan's body tenses up and anything he had been planning on saying suddenly seems insignificant. Oh. _Oh._

And with that, Ford is standing up and climbing to his bed, laying down with a hollow thump. Stan stares down at his feet, a million thoughts racing through his head as he pieces together all of the things that had happened over the course of the night and the thought that had been in the back of his head screams at him over and over. Ford's gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that, Stan reminds himself. His thoughts shift to memories of the boy last year with the pink lips and the broad shoulders, who he'd tried to pretend he just wanted to be friends with and the sweating of his palms was just him being nervous to talk to him. He wonders if he's gay too. Then he remembers Carla, remembers the way her lips taste against his and how the curve of her hip fits in his hand. He can't be gay, but he's definitely something and putting thought into it makes it something real and tangible, so he puts it to the side with all the other Things He Isn't Allowed to Think About.

He know Pa wouldn't approve of him bringing a boy home, let alone Ford, the genius who's supposed to make them millions. Stan understands why his brother wouldn't want to bring a boy anywhere in public, wouldn't want people to see them together and treat them how Pa treats everyone else like them. He understands the comfort of the shadows and how everything seems safe during the night. What he doesn't understand is how Ford could ever think Stan wouldn't support him fully with anything he did, even if he didn't completely agree with what his brother was doing. Not that this was one of those situations, as he never really did listen to their pa when he droned on about the deviancy of homosexuality. They were twins, they were supposed to be there for each other no matter what happened.

He falls back in bed with arms spread out and his feet still planted firmly on the floor. He needs to sleep soon before he starts to think about the implications of admiring a boy from afar and wondering what what his lips felt like under his. _Stop, Stan._

"Stanford?"

He hears a hum in acknowledgment from above him and takes that as a sign to continue.

"You're the world's dumbest genius if you think this changes anything."

Ford laughs above him and Stan can feel the relief coming out of his brother in waves.

"I still want to know all about him, just not right now. It's late as shit and we both need some sleep if you're going to be telling me all about your boyfriend tomorrow."

"You're an idiot if you think I'm going to tell you anything else about him," There's so much humour in his voice it has Stan cracking up with him.

Their quiet laughter fills the room and Stan wishes more than anything that they could stay like this forever, that they wouldn't have to worry about Pa finding out, and Stan didn't have to worry about the real possibility that he could have another thing in common with his brother. As their laughter dies down and they're left in a comfortable silence in, Stan feels content, knowing that no matter what came next, they had each other's backs.

"Thank you, Stanley."

Stan laughs again, gentle and reassuring. "G'night, sixer."

"Goodnight, Lee."

-

When they wake up the next morning, everything is different, but the same. Ford's still Ford, his nose buried in a science fiction novel while he sits on the foot of Stan's bed, and Stan's still Stan, holding a comic book above his head while he lay in bed, his feet tucked under his brother's bent legs. Although, this morning, instead of putting on a button up shirt, Ford throws on a red turtleneck to hide the evidence from the night before. And, unlike any other morning, Stan has the lingering thought from last night that he might like men in a way he hadn't considered before, that won't get out of his head no matter how hard he tries to force it away. He also has the knowledge that his brother has a boyfriend, and is only ever going to have boyfriends, because he's gay (a word that's huge for only having three letters). His newly budding sexuality and recent discovery about Ford mingle together in his head, begging Stan to open his mouth and ask his brother the question of how he knew. How did he know that he liked men? How did he come to terms with it instead of just pushing the thought so far back in his head that he didn't have to acknowledge it?

Stan thinks about the boy from last year, about the way his looked with the sun shining in them, and the way he would bite his lip in frustration when he didn't understand something (which, to Stan's delight, was most of the time). He thinks about all of the times he's seen him come to school in that stupid jacket and how badly he had wondered what it would take to get him out of it so Stan could take it for himself. At the time, he'd told himself just wanted it for how it looked, it couldn't be anything else. It couldn't be because it smelled like him, ciagarette smoke and something sweet, or that having it on would've made him feel like he belonged to him. He remembers the night on the pier, when they had stayed out late and smoked cigarettes under the light of the stars. He'd been so caught up in the way the boy's fingers curled around the cigarette in his hand that when he was offered a drag, he had stumbled over his words and earned one of the most beautiful laughs from the boy next to him that caused his words to catch in his throat. The boy had handed him the cigarette, a smile playing at his lips, and Stan couldn't do anything other than take it and smile back. As he lifted it up to his lips and inhaled, he couldn't help but think about the way it tasted on his tongue; stale smoke and something sweet. Like him.

His mind flashes through memories of him; bloodied knuckles and hushed words and blue eyes that stare into his soul. _Fuck._

"Sixer, I need to ask you something." He holds his breathe as he sits up and lets the comic he had been holding fall to his lap.

Ford hums, not looking up from the book in his hands.

"How did you know you liked Tom?"

Ford freezes up. A puff of air escapes his lips and he darts his gaze up quickly, before moving it back down to the words on the page, his posture relaxing. "You know how you feel about Carla?"

Stan nods.

"That's how I feel about him."

Stan's eyebrows drop in confusion. He doesn't feel the same way about Carla that he did about the boy. "How would you know? Have you ever liked a girl?"  
Ford's face flushes. "Well, no, but-"

"Then you don't know. It feels nothing like that." Shit. Shit shit shit. That's not what he meant to say.

His twin's snap up, the novel quickly forgotten. "Is this your way of making fun of me?"

"Shit, no. I think I like guys." It's out and, even though he fucked up, it was so simple that he wonders why he didn't do it earlier.

Ford's expression drops and he looks back down at his book. "So you are making fun of me. This is low, even for you, Stanley."

"What? No! Hear me out, Poindexter. I got thinking about myself last night and I think I feel the same way. Well, not exactly the same because I have Carla, you know?"

Ford shakes his head, "I don't."

"I like Carla, but last year there was this guy and I couldn't stop thinking about him and everytime I'd look at him I'd feel like I do with Carla now."  
He watches as Ford places his novel in his lap.

"Except it was different. It felt the same, but entirely different at the same time."

He can see the gears turning in his brother's brain as he processes what Stan had just said, his. A six fingered hand comes up to run through Ford's hair, and his head tilts down as a gentle laugh escapes his parted lips.

"You're an idiot."

"Sixer, what the hell? I'm trying to open to you." He tries not to sound hurt and does a shit job at it.

"It was Danny wasn't it?"

Hearing the name brings back a familiar feeling in his chest that makes it hard to breath. How did he know?

"You would spend every waking moment with him last year. I had thought it was because you were in a gang with him, but love seems like a much more logical conclusion."

Stan laughs, a grin spreading across his face. "You really are a nerd."

Ford rolls his eyes in response, picking his novel back up and directing his attention towards it. He's still himself. And Stan's still Stan.

-

Two weeks later, Ford comes in through their bedroom door instead of the window, and Stan knows something went horribly wrong. It only takes one look at his twin to know that their pa had found out. His cheeks are tear stained and his face is covered in an assortment of cuts and bruises. Neither of them say anything as Ford trudges over to their collective beds and stops in front of him, their meeting, saying everything that was left unsaid. He lifts up the covers and his brother crawls in next to him, his face tucked into his side.

They don't talk about it in the morning.

-

It's only a couple months later when Stan's gone and Ford's being sent off to college, with the silent expectation having been placed on him to be the better twin. The bruises under his clothes and the thoughts screaming at him in his head that he's a fuck up make it hard for him not to envy his brother. His brother, who had gotten away from their pa two months earlier, even if it wasn't his choice to leave. Even if he had begged to stay and looked up at Ford with pleading that told him that he didn't mean it and he didn't want to go. Ford was too caught up in his own anger to do anything other than just watch in silent misery as the one person he could trust with anything drove off into the night, with no promise of coming back.

He doesn't know what to do now, doesn't know who he is. Without Stan, he's just a freak with six fingers and a shattered dream. He tries to shove the part of him that fell in love with a stupid boy into the deepest part of him and convinces himself that a romantic relationship would just get in the way of his scientific breakthrough. If he lays awake the nights after that thinking of rough lips against him and confessions whispered in the secret of the night, it's no ones problem but his. He'd get over it eventually. If he finds himself one night with his arm thrown over his eyes and his mind full of thoughts of calloused hands around his neck and hips grinding against his, it's not his fault he gives in and then cries himself to sleep. He'd get over it eventually. When he was in college, he wouldn't have time to think about any of it, he reasoned. He'd get over it eventually.

_He wasn't going to get over it._

But he had to. There's no time for anything other than work at college if he wants to get his PhD early and change the world.

_But a hand in his would be so nice along the way._

Another person would only hold him back.

_Another boy._

He wasn't gay. Pa had told him how horrible people like that were, had beat that fact into him. Ford wasn't one of them.

_He was._

He was.

When he meets Fiddleford, everthing is different. Fiddleford isn't the boy he would sneak out at night to kiss under the starlight with love in his heart and fear in his gut. He's gentler, with rounder edges and a kinder heart. His smile lights up his face instead of only curling to one side of it with mischief, and unlike the old object of his affections- whose sexuality was as much of a secret as Ford's- Fiddleford is open about liking both genders. Ford could be open too, at least with Fiddleford, now that he doesn't have his father watching his every movement; yelling at him that he shouldn't be the way he is until his face is scarlet and tears are running down Ford's cheeks. The only thing left of his father now is the echo in Ford's mind that he should definitely not feel like this about any boy, let alone his roommate. It's loud enough to stop him from telling his roommate that his romantic interest does not lie in girls, and that he really would like to see him with his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. The last part may be more due to the fact Fiddleford has a boyfriend- if the muffled groans in the dark of the night and the boy sneaking out in the mornings are anything to go by.

Ford doesn't ask about him, too scared of the answer he'll get. He doesn't want his heart broken when he already has so much going against him. He'd rather watch his roommate from afar and distract himself with with his studies, working away the frustration of being in love with someone like Fiddleford. Not like Fiddleford, his brain reminds him, because there's nothing wrong with Fiddleford. Like a boy, his brain supplies helpfully.

It's not until months after they've met that Ford realised he was royally fucked, and that, just like back in Glass Shard Beach, what he did in the dark wasn't enough to satisfy what he felt. They're in the middle of a game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons when it happens, all of the months of carefully avoided physical contact gone as soon as Fiddleford goes to hand Ford a thirty eight sided die and his fingers graze Ford's palm. He should've known something would go wrong, he should have had something planned. He shouldn't have let his breathe hitch the way it did or let his hand hover in the air with the die sitting idly in his palm. He shouldn't have sat there for so long like that that his roommate had to say his name and reach out to touch his wrist, which made it twice in the span of two seconds that his no touching rule had been broken and Ford really felt like he was going into overdrive. He quickly snatches his hand back before Fiddleford can make any more contact with his writst, his fingers curling tightly around the thirty eight sided die that had started it all.

"Do you have somethin' against me?" The boy in front of him pipes up, and even with Ford's limited social skills, he can tell he's upset.

"Of course not." The words come out of his mouth too quick and he can feel his anxiety overflowing out of him, "Why would I?"

"I'm not an idiot, Stanford." He's looking at him for all the world like he knows something Ford doesn't. Ford can feel his fight or flight response kicking in and tries to shove it down.

He's vibrating with nerves by the time he stutters out, "W-what do you mean?"

"Every time ya see me with m'boyfriend ya glare daggers at us like we're an insult to ya. I know not everyone is supportive o' what me an' him do, but I thought you an' me were friends? It wouldn't be that much o' a problem if ya didn't flinch away whenever I got within an inch o' ya like I was gonna make ya like fellas or somethin'. I'm not going to infect ya, Standford, it does'n work like that."

"Fidds, it's not like that." He's leaning towards flight, due to the fact that fight means there'll probably be more contact and he's not sure he can do that.

"Then what is it like?"

It's a good question and none of the answers he can give would be anywhere near true unless he told his roommate that he's been in love with him ever since he watched him kick open the door a month into their friendship with a banjo in his hand and a shit eating grin on his face that made his heart stop. Fiddleford isn't exactly single and Ford really isn't ready to out himself. He's kept this charade up for months, he might as well keep going.

"I'm not comfortable being touched." He can hear his own soul crushing at the sentence, his heart begging him to just reach out and touch Fiddleford, "I don't have a problem with you and your partner either. My brother actually was ah, like you."

"S'that supposed to mean?"

That made it worse, it would seem. His unsteady hands push him up onto his feet, clasping behind his back and he's sent back to the night in his bedroom, where moonlight illuminated eyes looked into him and tried to figure out what had happened to make his lips swell and his heart race. He wishes he could go back and tell his brother then that he never had any interest in girls, that the person he was sneaking out to see was a boy that was two years older than him and just as scared of the world as he was. He wishes he could have sat next to him and told him everything about Tom while Stan sat there with his arm around him and listened. He doesn't know why he hid it for so long when he knew he could trust his brother with anything.

And as he looks down at Fiddleford, the man who's managed to open him up in a way that no one other than Stan had managed to do before, he realises he can trust him. He's tired of running from who he is. With a final breathe in attempt to compose himself, he lets his hands fall to his sides and sits back down.

"When we first met, I thought you were insane for being open about who you are. I grew up thinking that being yourself meant hiding the parts of yourself that no one liked or accepted," He brings his hand up and waggles his fingers to show his point, "But, now that I'm here, and now that I know you, I know that's not what it's like. After a week of knowing you, I envied you for being able to just say how you felt and not worry about what other people think. And now that we're sitting here, and you're telling me you think I don't approve of your relationship or you liking men, I've realised that I must have done something wrong in these past few months to make you believe that."

The tense look on Fiddleford's face fades, replaced by one of mild shock.

"I don't have anything against you liking men, Fidds. I have a problem with me liking them."

"Ya really are confusing me, Stanford. I know ya don't like men, that's not the issue we were tryin' to address."

Ford groans, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. "No, it's not like that."

"What's not like what?"

"I do like men."

Fiddleford's eyebrows raise, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Why wasn't this as easy as telling Stanley? Why couldn't he just say that he was gay and they could move on? _Oh, yeah._ Because Stan wasn't the boy he fell in love with, he was his brother.

"My pa used to always tell us how horrible homosexuals were and how they were a burden to this world, so I've always been terrified of the fact that I was one." Ford looks down at his hands that had somehow found their way to his lap and lets out a sigh.

He hears rustling and sees Fiddleford moving towards him and sitting down next to him out of the corner of his eye. Catiously, he watches as his friend's hand reaches over, untangling his intertwined hands and taking one of them in his.

"Ya aren't a burden to me, Stanford."

And as Ford looks up at the man holding his hand, he realises he couldn't not love him. He's got such a warm smile on his face and their hands fit together so perfectly. Ford can't help but smile back.

-

Another month passes, in which things are quieter, but the same. Fiddleford's boyfriend hasn't come around and Ford thinks it may be due to the fact that exams were coming up, but hopes it's because they broke up. Other than that, they still play DD&MD, Fiddleford still stays up late playing his banjo, Ford still studies until he crashes on top of all of his school books, and he continues to be in love with his best friend. They talked about Tom one night during a late night study session, when Ford was too tired to care and Fiddleford was kind of drunk off the cheap bottle of whiskey he kept under his bed. It ended with Fiddleford's arms around him as he shook from the memories and the contact with the man that made it feel like his heart was going to collapse in his chest. They don't talk about Tom after that. Ford thinks Fiddleford knows all that he wants to, and if he wants to know more, he doesn't push it.

On the day after exams, it's pouring rain and both men are holed inside of their dorm room. Ford's going through a pile of books he had found stuffed under his bed and Fiddleford is busy scribbling something on a piece of paper that Ford thinks is either their next DD&MD adventure or an idea for another one of his inventions. He knows he'll find out by the end of the night, so he doesn't bother him about it. He picks up a sci fi novel that he vaguely recognises and a picture falls out from between the pages, fluttering down onto his bed. Ford watches its slow decent and pauses when it lands face up, staring back at him.  
It's a picture from the night when Stan had snuck out with him to meet Tom. Him and Tom are sitting on the beach with the ocean behind them and the stars bright in the sky. Their hands are linked between them and their lips are pressed together in an intimate display of their care for each other. He remembers Stan had taken his Polaroid without asking him and laughed when Ford tried to yell at him about wasting film. Stan had taken a picture of everything he could and, in the end, Ford couldn't be mad, because the weeks leading up to their pa finding out, he held those pictures close to his heart. When Pa had found out, Ford took all of the pictures he could find from that night and throw them in the dumpster outside, scared of what Pa would do if he had found them. He must have forgot about this one.

Ford tentitively reaches down and takes the picture in his hand, feeling any shred of anger he still felt towards his brother fade. Stan had always been there to support him, whether it had been with his inventions or something else. Ford was an idiot to have thought Stan would actually sabatoge his future on purpose. And as he looks down at the image of him one of the last times he had been truly happy, he's overcome with the feeling that he'd had that night, with a fire in his heart and joy overflowing from him. He looks over at his roommate almost instinctively, knowing that the last time he had felt anything close to that was when Fiddleford had held him and made Ford feel like he was worth something for the first time in months.  
Ford looks back at the picture, and with the soothing sound of the rain hitting the windows in the background influencing him, he makes a decision. He places his feet on the floor, his empty hand resting in his lap.

"Hey, Fidds?" His voice rings out above the rain.

His friend looks up, pencil pausing its movements against the paper in front of him. "Ya need something?"

"Yes, actually."

Fiddleford puts his pencil down, waiting for Ford to continue.

"I've been thinking about it for a while now and I've come to the conclusion that it would be best if I told you. I need to put all my cards on the table. I know that you're in a relationship and I don't expect for this to change that or for the two of you to part ways. It's just better to have all of the information so you can make clear decisions. I've tried to look past it and I've tried to pretend it's something else, but I've realised it can't be anything else. I didn't mean to, but I fell in love with you." He pauses, clearing his throat. "I don't expect you to do anything based on this information, I just thought it would be for the best if you knew all of the facts."

He focuses on his friend, instantly regretting what he had said after seeing the look of shock on his face. Fiddleford's lips are parted and his eyebrows are raised. 

"Actually, forget I said any of that. It's not important." 

He wonders what it would've been like if he had told Tom what he had told Fiddleford. It would've been different, something hushed in the dark of the night with no one around to hear. They would've been on the pier, their foreheads resting against each other and Ford's lips glistening with their saliva, and he would've told him that he was in love with him in a ragged breath out. He wouldn't have even realised he said it, something so filled with joy and fueled by the fire in his heart that it just came out. He wonders if Tom would've said it back. If he used to feel the same way.

Ford's pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of what Fiddleford was writing hitting the bed and the man himself shifting to swing his legs off the floor. He watches as his roommate rests his feet flat on the floor and pushes himself up, a look of nervous determination on his face. He makes his way to Ford's side of the room and stops only a few inches away from him. Ford feels Fiddleford's hands on his cheeks and watches as he ducks down, then immediately stops thinking the moment their lips press together. Fiddleford's lips are chapped and he tastes like whiskey and mint and late nights playing DD&MD. Ford can feel his heart trying to jump out of chest.

Their lips part with a smack and Ford can feel the other man's warm breath against his face, tempting him. He looks down at his hands, still resting in his lap. He focuses in on his features to stop himself from pulling him back in, and notices a few things. The first is that one of Fiddleford's hands had managed to find their way to the back of his head and were tangled up in his hair. The second is that the other man's lips are glistening, begging for him to close the space between them. Third, and most importantly, is that Fiddleford might still have a boyfriend. 

"What about your boyfriend?" Ford would really just like to kiss him now and worry about it later.

"I broke up with 'im."

"When?" They could talk about it later, they really could, but the word comes out of his mouth before he could really think about it.

"A month ago, after ya came out t'me. I realised I couldn't give 'im all my love when I was already fallin' for someone else." Fiddleford's hand slides from his cheek to meet his other one in his hair. "Can I kiss ya again?"

"Please." The word comes out as a rough breath.

Ford's hands shoot up and grab his friend's shirt, pulling him down to crash their lips together before the other man gets the chance to. Fiddleford gasps against him and it feels like being pulled in, like the noise that came from his lips and spilled into Ford's mouth made a part of the other man's soul seep into his. Ford mind goes blank, giving into the feeling of lips moving against his. He opens his mouth up and falls back onto the bed, pulling Fiddleford down with him. The other man laughs into the kiss and readjusts himself so he's resting on his forearms, smiling against Ford's lips. Ford couldn't form a coherant thought even if he wanted to. 

-

College ends and Ford goes to Oregon to work on his research. Without Fiddleford. He puts all he is into his work and doesn't let himself think about what could have been if his friend had come down with him. The paranormal activity is enough to keep him distracted, and no one in the town knows who he is (he only goes out once a month to buy the bare minimum), so he doesn't have to worry about anyone else getting in his way. He has himself and that's all he needs. 

Then Bill comes around, turing into everything Ford needs and more. His muse. His research assistant. His friend. He doesn't sleep after meeting him, doesn't have the time to with all the work that has to be done. The only time he gets any rest is when his body gives out on him, and even then, he'll only get a few hours until he forces himself awake. There was too much to be done to be wasting precious time. When he blacks out and wake up in the middle of the woods one night, his body bruised and his clothes stained with his own blood, he doesn't think too much about it. Thinking about it only provided and distraction and there's too much work to be done to spare a thought for anything else. 

Months after his work with Bill had began, he had reached a particularly difficult part of his work and let Bill possess him, only to regain consciousness of his body hours later. Blood was clouding his vision in one eye and dripping down onto the desk. Anything that he or Bill had written down that day was ruined by the bloodstains covering the paper in front of him. He had gone to sleep that night of his own free will, crying until his tears were no longer mingled with blood and his throat was raw. The sleepless nights after that seemed lonelier.

-

The next day, the voices in his head screamed at him until he ran into the forest, crying out as loud as his throat, still sore from the night before, would let him. He called up Fiddleford that night, unable to bare anymore time alone. He comes down to Gravity falls later that week, spouting out false promises of finishing the portal and having a life together after everything was said and done. Then he was gone, leaving Ford with a warning about Bill, the one person he thought he could trust. But Fiddleford was himself and that's all Ford really needed for his word to be more credible than anyone else's. He's left to deal with Bill and dismantle the portal by himself after that. 

When he invites his brother down to help a couple days later, he tries to convince himself it's because he can't hide the journal when he's busy destroying his life's work, and not because he's lonely. He couldn't be lonely. He had himself. Then Stan shows up on his doorstep, his hair grown out, and he has the look of someone who's seen too much for one lifetime on his face, and Ford has a hard time convincing himself that he didn't want his brother to stay for a little while longer. 

_He couldn't let himself miss Stan. He couldn't let himself need company. He had work to do._

It's only when they're in the basement and his brother is looking at him with anger and panic that Ford realises maybe his work shouldn't have been his top priority. Maybe he could have focused on finding Stan or being in love with anything but science. As he finds himself being pulled in the portal, the journal flying out of his hand his last cry for help ripping out of his throat, he lets himself think that maybe, if he had gotten over his petty grudge against Stan earlier, things wouldn't have ended up like this. If he hadn't thought his research would be hindered by Fiddleford's help in the beginning, maybe he would have invited him to study together in Gravity Falls and they wouldn't have broken up after college. If he hadn't buried himself in his research and valued it above everything else in his life, maybe he would've been happier.

-

After thirty years have passed and Ford has been to Hell and back, he doesn't worry much about romance or what could have been. He's got the rift to worry about and any free time he ends up having is spent his brother and the twins. Stan and him don't get along as well as they did forty years ago, but they're getting there, and Ford loves his niece and nephew despite how long he's known them. He's happy for the first time in a long while.

Then Weirdmaggedon happens, and amongst the chaos and weirdness, he sees Fiddleford again. Except, the man that stares back at him hardly knows who Ford is, his manic grin wide with forgotten promises and fragmented memories. Ford supposes he hardly knows who Fiddleford is anymore either. Thirty years apart can do that. He looks over Fiddleford, older and more unkempt than he remembered, his beard that looked like it hadn't been trimmed in years nearly reaching his knees (the way he was hunched over didn't help). It's all different and new to him, all of it except for his eyes, that, despite the glint of insanity in them, were the same ones that had crinkled up with a smile when they would play DD&MD and squint in frustration when he couldn't figure out how to solve an equation. They were the same eyes of the man he had fallen in love with, and that's all it takes for Ford to find himself falling back in love with the ridiculous genius in front of him. He doesn't have much time to think about it, storing the information for later after Bill was gone and everyone was okay (he couldn't bare to lose someone after he'd just gotten used to having all of them around). 

After Bill's gone and Stan's memory is half faded, Ford goes to visit Fiddleford in his rundown shack in the middle of a junkyard. It's late at night, the moon shining down on him, reminding him of all of the nights previous to this one where he had snuck out to see someone he really shouldn't be seeing. He was a grown man, he shouldn't feel like this. Ford shakes the thought out of his head and takes in the area around him. As he looks at his surroundings, he wonders how long Fiddleford has put up with the smell and the dirt and the isolation. He reaches the makeshift home and holds his hand up to knock on the door, cringing at the feeling of metal and rust vibrating beneath his fist. The door cracks open and anxious eyes peak out, locking onto Ford's. He can hardly breath. Shaking hands pull the door open the rest of the way and Ford is left looking at his old friend, with dirt covered overalls hanging off his thin frame and a nevrvous grin plastered on his face. 

"Fiddleford." He doesn't register the name leaving his mouth until it's already out. 

Fiddleford's smile turns more genuine. "I was wonderin' if you were gonna stop by."

Ford smiles weakly. It was his fault Fiddleford had ended up here. 

"Ya want t'come inside?" 

He nods, clasping his hands behind his back and watching as the other man steps out of the doorway. Fiddleford scampers over to a set of chairs sitting in the corner and Ford follows, taking in his surroundings on the way. There's blueprints piled up around the room and half finished inventions scattered about, mixed in with various bits and pieces. It reminds Ford of college, and as much as he wants to push the thought away and avoid the feelings that come with it, it's such a comforting thought that he refuses to let it go. His gaze rests back on Fiddleford, noticing that he's situated himself in one of the chairs (was that his banjo on the ground next to him?). He gives Ford a curious look and in return, Ford curls his lips up in the first genuine smile of the night. The other man smiles back at him. Ford sits down in the chair across from his friend and rests his hands in his lap, carefully considering the sight laid before him.

"That apocolypse sure was somethin' wasn't it?"

Ford laughs. "Thirty years trapped in other dimensions, and somehow the weirdest thing to happen to me was in this one."

"Thirty years?! Has it really been that long since I last saw ya?"

Somehow, despite everything that had happened over the years, they fall back into their old dynamic like it's the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it's because even with the crazed look in his eye and golden tooth, it was still Fiddleford. It was the same smile he gave Ford now that he gave him a lifetime ago, and it's the same tone he uses when he talks about one of the inventions he's working on. And as the night progresses and the sound of banjo strings being plucked and laughter fills the room, Ford knows that it's still the same man he had fallen in love with. It's still Fiddleford, strumming late into the night and bouncing his knee when he was anxious, making Ford feel like he was still nineteen and full of angst and curiosity and love. He doesn't know how they end up on the doorstep of the Mystery Shack by the end of the night, but he does know that even though Fiddleford's lips taste different, they still feel the same.

-

Stan wakes up to deep voices trailing in from outside, mingling with the quiet sounds of the television he had fallen asleep to. He squints his eyes at the screen in front of him as he takes in the knowledge that he had fallen asleep in the living room again and reminds himself not to do that again as he sits up straight, his back cracking loudly in protest. He stands up and makes his way to the front door, the voices getting louder and more distinct. One of them sounded almost like his brother, but the last he had seen of Ford was him going to his room (he only ever went there when he was going to sleep) and it made Stan question what Ford would get back up for. Probably another stupid nerd thing. Stan shakes his head, knowing Ford would have mentioned something to him if he were planning on leaving later that night. They had a silent agreement to tell each other when one of them was leaving so they wouldn't lose each other again after forty years of coming and going. Stan pulls the door open, being met by the sight of his brother and Old Man McGucket (holy shit, what the fuck?) jumping away from each other. He wishes that this had happened before he got his memory wiped, then maybe he'd have a chance of not remembering it like with some of his other memories. _Maybe it had?_ Maybe this was something he was supposed to know about, but had forgot? 

The look he's being given tells him that he wasn't forgetting anything. This was something new.

As Stan stares at the two men, their cheeks flushed as they look back at him in shock, all he can do is scoff something that sounds vaguely like 'of course' and step to the side. 

"You're lucky I even opened the door." There's no real anger to his voice, even though he knows there should be.

Ford snorts out a laugh and steps inside, McGucket following close behind him. Stan bumps Ford on his way past, giving him a playful glare and closing the door. He earns a lopsided smile from his brother, the look in his eyes telling Stan that, even after all these years, his approval still means something. Ford takes Fiddleford's hand in his and offers Stan a quick 'goodnight, Stanley' before the two of them head off towards Ford's room. 

-

In the morning, everything is the same, but different. Stan comes downstairs to find Ford and McGucket in the kitchen, his brother's cheeks flushed and a light in his eyes that brings back memories Stan didn't even know he had. His lips curl up at the sight and he stands there a moment, watching the dumb grin that breaks out on Ford's face as he notices his presence. Stan shakes his head and huffs out a laugh, setting out to make breakfast for the younger set of twins, who were still in their room.

Some things never change.


End file.
